


Homecoming

by Balder12



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Purgatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balder12/pseuds/Balder12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alastair is not worried, he knows he'll get Dean back soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by Smilla02 on spn_rambleon.

In the dark, he sits and waits. Or at least, for the sake of convenience, let us say “he,” although “she” is equally likely, and “it” is far more fitting, now. Even he no longer remembers his true face, and if he remembers his true name–the one that would break and bind him–it’s not like he’s going to tell it to you. Dean called him Alastair, and Alastair is good enough.  
  
Even he’ll admit that he was surprised when he woke up here. He’d scarcely believed that Purgatory existed. He was angry, at first, and he told himself that it was because he’d been cut down before Lucifer rose. How many eons had he spent working toward a day he’d never see? Alastair was nothing if not a religious man, and he’d wanted to meet his God.  
  
The truth, though, was that he was disappointed that he’d been separated from Dean before he’d put the finishing touches on his masterpiece. When he’d gone up to earth, he’d meant to break the seals and then drag Dean home to continue his education. Hell had so few worthy to be Alastair’s apprentice, and none as fine as Dean.  
  
The basic problem with Hell, as Alastair saw it, was that it was full of damned souls, and damned souls are boring. They’re petty and selfish, which is generally how they wound up there in the first place. Dean was different. Exciting. His soul overflowed with love, and Alastair could work with that. Love is Hell’s finest weapon.  
  
What? You thought it was hate? Hate is nothing, a cheap adrenaline high, a toddler’s tantrum. Love is the only emotion strong enough to be sharpened to a razor’s edge. Every time Dean disappointed his father, every time he went hungry so Sam could eat, the last glimpse of the bus leaving for Stanford, John’s dying words. Carve away the excess bits, and Dean’s soul flashed like a blade made of rage and pain, abandonment and betrayal. There was nothing Dean did in his ten years working over souls that he wasn’t already capable of. Alastair just gave him permission, and a creative outlet.  
  
Alastair could hardly believe his luck when he felt Dean’s soul fall into Purgatory, tugging at his consciousness like a fish on the line. And what a beautiful soul it was. Earth had almost finished the job that Alastair started. So much loss, so many betrayals at the hands of brothers and friends, lovers and angels. Each one had sharpened him a little more, brought him a little closer to becoming what he was meant to be. And now here he was, slashing his way through monsters day and night–not that Purgatory has day and night–high on violence and running on killer instinct. Perfect.  
  
Dean’s companion took longer to detect. If it weren’t for Alastair’s supernatural senses, he would never have believed that the pathetic creature clinging to Dean’s sleeve, prattling like a child about bees and flowers and kittens, was the same angel who had stolen him away. Dean paid no attention, but the angel talked, anyway, starting in on a list of games he liked–Twister and Uno, Candyland and Monopoly. Alastair will have to think of some games for the three of them to play.  
  
Alastair could laugh at his good fortune, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. In the dark, he sits and waits for his boy to come back to him. He can wait forever. But he doesn’t think he’ll have to.


End file.
